'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought,
To gild the ruin she has wrought;
For, like the bat of Indian brakes,
Her pinions fan the wound she makes,
And, soothing thus the dreamer's pain,
She drinks his life-blood from the vein.
Now to the lattice turn his eyes,
Vain bope! to see the sun arise.
The moon with clouds is still o'ercast,
Still howls by fits the stormy blast;
Another hour must wear away,
Ere the East kindle into day,

And, hark! to waste that weary hour,

He tries the minstrel's magic power.

The sketch of Matilda, the heiress of Rokeby, is also beautiful, though it may be thought in some respects to approach almost too closely to that of Ellen, in the Lady of the Lake.

Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair

Half hid Matilda's forehead fair,

Half hid and half revealed to view

Her full dark eye of hazel hue.

The rose, with faint and feeble streak,
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,
That you had said her hue was pale,
But if she faced the summer gale,
Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,
Or heard the praise of those she loved,
Or when of interest was expressed
Aught that waked feeling in her breast,
The mantling blood in ready play
Rivalled the blush of rising day.
There was a soft and pensive grace,
A cast of thought upon her face,
That suited well the forehead high,
The eye-lash dark and down-cast eye;
The mild expression spoke a mind
In duty firm, composed, resigned;-
'Tis that which Roman art has given,
To mark their maiden Queen of heaven.
In hours of sport, that mood gave way
To Fancy's light and frolic play,

And when the dance, or tale, or song,
In harmless mirth sped time along,
Full oft her doating sire would call
His Maud the merriest of them all.
But days of war, and civil crime,
Allowed but ill such festal time,
And her soft pensiveness of brow
Had deepened into sadness now.
In Marston field her father ta'en,
Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham slain,
While every ill her soul foretold,

From Oswald's thirst of power and gold,
And boding thoughts that she must part
With a soft vision of her heart,-

All lowered around the lovely maid,

To darken her dejection's shade.

We have not space enough left for more than the following, which is in the best style of Scott's lively descriptions of danger. Bertram, the assassin, as he is on his way with Wilfrid through a dark glen, where his superstitious fears are awakened, suddenly starts at seeing a shade before him:

Bertram sprung forward, shouting high,
"Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand!"
And forth he darted, sword in hand.

As bursts the leven in its wrath,

He shot him down the sounding path;
Rock, wood, and stream, rung wildly out,
To his loud step and savage shout.

Seems that the object of his race

Hath scaled the cliffs; his frantic chace
Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent
Right up the rock's tall battlement;
Straining each sinue to ascend,

Foot, hand, and knee their aid must lend.

Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay,

Views from beneath his dreadful way;

Now to the oak's warped roots he clings,

Now trusts his weight to ivy strings;
Now, like the wild goat, must he dare
An unsupported leap in air;

Hid in the shrubby rain-course now,
You mark him by the crashing bough,
And by his corslet's sullen clank,

And by the stones spurned from the bank,
And by the hawk scared from her nest;
And ravens croaking o'er their guest,
Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay
The tribute of his bold essay.

See, he emerges!-desperate now
All farther course-yon beetling brow,
In craggy nakedness sublime,
What heart or foot shall dare to climb!
It bears no tendril for his clasp,
Presents no angle to his grasp;
Sole stay his foot may rest upon,
Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone.
Balanced on such precarious prop,
He strains his grasp to reach the top.
Just as the dangerous stretch he makes,
By heaven, his faithless footstool shakes!
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends,
It sways, it loosens, it descends!

And downward holds its headlong way,
Crashing o'er rock and copse-wood spray.
Loud thunders shake the echoing dell!-
Fell it alone?-alone it fell.

Just on the very verge of fate,
The hardy Bertram's falling weight

He trusted to his sinewy hands,

And on the top unharmed he stands!

ORIGINAL POETRY.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

ON LEYRID'S RETIREMENT INTO THE COUNTRY.

WHERE lofty forests wave their heads,
And flowrets deck the lowly meads;
Where bold Ilyssus rolls along,
In current rapid, clear and strong;
His waves in rich luxuriance rise
When gentle Zephyr breathes its sighs:

Where lavish Nature throws around
Whate'er can charm the fairy ground:

And where bright Hope and Joy are ever seen,

And Peace, and Love, and calm Content with placid mein:

Where summer's suns, with gentle fire

Shine but to warm-and then retire.
To welcome Autumn's fruitful brow
Or Winter's not ungenial snow,
And then with gladness swiftly bring
The verdure of the teeming spring-
Spring season of the blushing rose,
When the young ivy round it grows,
And woodbines then their curling tendrils join,
In soft and tender union with the wreathing vine:—

There Leyrid lives, remote from noise,
And rural scenes of peace enjoys;
With those whose fond paternal care
Has polished bright the lovely fair;
With those who oft delight to trace
Good nature beaming in her face:
And love to survey in her mind

All the virtues there combin’d—

All that with fond delight the poet feigns

When Love inflames and Fancy thrills his raptur'd strains.

With friends like these how swiftly glide

The current of life's rapid tide!

How do they sweeten each dull hour,
How cheer these hours that often lower,
When pale Misfortune's palsying hand
O'er Joy and Peace waves high her wand.
When Friendship's face, serenely smiles,
We think no more of Treachery's wiles;
It makes past days in swift succession rise
To charm once more the mourner's tear dew'd eyes.

Oh! ye kind gods who ne'er disdain,

To calm our fears and ease our pain,

Oh! listen to my fervent prayer
From ev'ry harm protect the fair.
May her soft heart ne'er feel how keen
The cruel shaft that strikes unseen-

That strikes and lays its victim low,

Unknown the cause,-unseen the blow.

And may she long avoid pale Envy's flame

And still preserve, with conscience pure, bright Virtue's name.
May Fancy to her favourite child,
Still teach her native wood-notes wild,
And Genius crown with fadeless bays,
The maid who weaves her winning lays.
E'en now untaught in Wisdom's years,
Her polish'd numbers please our ears;
What then, when more matur'd by time
Shall be her Muse's riper rhyme?

Did but Prediction's voice to me belong,

Each Muse and every Grace would love to claim her song.

May she with deep-fix'd scorn deride

The weakness of a silly pride:

Ne'er may she hear base Flattery's theme

Nor idly list the soothing dream.

For Flattery, like the poisoned bowl
First sooths and then destroys the soul;

But to avert the feather'd dart

And safely shield a female heart,

May Learning grave her studious mind engage,
To pore with eye unwearied o'er the instructive page.

Next shall my feeble pen portray,

In artless numbers of the lay?

Oh! then how fondly would I trace,

The features of a lovely face.
May each fair lineament declare

That native worth is hidden there.

Give to her cheek the tint that glows,

And blushes in the morning rose.